December Tragedies
by Trans-Siberian Railway
Summary: AU Two-shot: Long after Alfred fell asleep, Ivan's huge hands wrapped around his own, Ivan wished he had said no, but sunflowers find ways to baffle you. Russia/America slash. Human-names used. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Happy Holidays, readers! Thank you very much for taking the time to check out my story. This isn't my first time on FanFiction, but this is definitely my first Hetalia fic. Feedback would be greatly appreciated!

Summery: AU Two-shot: Long after Alfred fell asleep, Ivan's huge hands wrapped around his own, Ivan wished he had said no, but sunflowers find ways to baffle you. Russia/America.

Warnings: Sadness (at least, I _hope _it's sad), probably unnecessary scene-jumps, and...Russia. Yeah...

Disclaimer: I, Trans-Siberian Railway, do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, Russia/Ivan, or America/Alfred. Or anything else. Ain't that a downer.

* * *

Ivan Braginsky could have made one of two choices that December first day, and in hindsight, there was nothing particularly cryptic or life-changing regarding the consequences one or the other might have evoked in the long run. Broken down and fleshed out, it came down to whether or not he should take his dying boyfriend outside into the crisp and cooling New Jersey air (as was said boyfriend's wish) or remain indoors, where Matthew—Alfred's brother—would make hot chocolate and strawberry pancakes, turn on a Devils game, and let Ivan and his pale and paling twin wrap themselves up and whisper under the blankets, because Alfred was always falling asleep and he hated missing games almost as much as Matthew.

And though Alfred always asked him for things, like an extra blanket or his meds, he never truly _wanted_ something that Ivan wasn't prepared to give him. Wanting attention, hugs, kisses, or _more_—Ivan never denied him. One look at Alfred's face, at those sparkle-blue eyes heavy with exhaustion, bursting from the inside-out with pent up energy stuck in a vacuum, saying no was like holding a bowl of dog food next to a starved puppy and throwing it in the trash, or slapping a sleeping child. Alfred was a soul to be cherished, and Ivan figured that out the hard way when he suddenly collapsed a year ago.

Cancer, they told him. Ivan almost laughed. What cancer was strong enough, persistent enough, _crazy _enough, to try and put Alfred Jones in the ground? He learned soon enough, maybe a week or so after he first met Alfred, that pushing up daisies was one thing, but cutting down sunflowers was quite another. Alfred didn't think it was possible, whatever _it _was, and it was that sort of unflagging optimism that spun the threads of desire between a foolhardy, bright American boy and a Russian international student.

A love story, indeed. But no amount of love could keep Alfred's cancer at bay. It was like watching a sunflower wither, Ivan decided, because he knew what that looked like, and watching it happen to Alfred was a thousand-and-one times worse than the millions of sunflowers he grew beneath his hands. Touching Alfred frightened him now, scared that Alfred's petals would crinkle and fall between his fingers, and Ivan would be left with another dying body cradled in his arms and no one else to hold his heart for him.

So on December first, because he knew Alfred would be happy, Ivan called up a motley crew of friends garnered over the years and said Alfred wanted them all to hang out later at the local park. There was a pine forest nearby cutting counties in two, and Alfred said it reminded him of Christmas. He wanted to see it.

"Pretty sentimental shit and all, but I wanna go. It'll be Christmas soon…"

Ivan pretended he didn't see that faraway look in Alfred's eyes, or that his voice seemed to crack at "Christmas," like he wasn't expecting to be there—

He called everyone. And, either because they were afraid to say no or that they could hear the urgency in his voice that Ivan didn't know existed, everyone came.

The first to show was Francis—Ivan knew him as "The Blood on My Knuckles Eight Months Ago," when, for a brief moment during study hall, Ivan had left the room to get Alfred's jacket and returned to find the so-called "filthy French fucker" just seconds away from sodomizing his weakening Alfred in a janitor's closet. Yet there he was, sauntering over and smiling, bereft of all fear. There were roses tucked in the collar of his imported blazer, little red-ruby beauties with russet trim and baby-sharp thorns. Ivan's mouth quirked in a smile when Francis twirled one between his fingers; it was a cavalier-courter act, in Ivan's eyes, of the utmost absurdity.

But Ivan's smiles always spelled danger. Everyone learned soon enough. Alfred elbowed his arm.

"Be nice," he warned.

Ivan beamed in response. "That was the plan, _солнышко_! Of course, the _nice _thing to do would be to let people know when something's wrong, _да_? You wouldn't let a friend go out if they looked inappropriate, right?" He leaned down to Alfred's level to whisper. "I don't know how things work in America, but in Russia, you kill rats on sight."

Alfred lolled his head until he was resting against Ivan's arm. With his Russian trooper hat on—Ivan brought one back from Russia a few months ago when he went to visit his sisters for the summer—Ivan couldn't see Alfred's face when he said, "You still have problems with him?"

"Well, if that's what you want to call them…"

Alfred sighed. "Whatever. Just don't—"

"Ah, _mon cher_! How nice it is to see you out and about this lovely afternoon!" Francis sang. He was in hearing range now, and he took Alfred's face in his leather gloved-hands. For a complete pervert, Ivan could objectively note that Francis had a lady-killer's smile—subjectively, he was contemplating what would hurt more: Death by drowning or suffocation, especially if Francis kept ignoring him.

But Alfred's irritation melted into the snow as quickly as it came. He laughed and shook his head like a playful puppy-dog, dislodging Francis's hands. "_C'mon_, man, you think a little cold is gonna keep me inside? Dream on! I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Francis _tsk_ed, wagging his index finger. "Ah, ah, ah, you wouldn't want to get sick out here, would you?"

Ivan's fist curled in his glove, and he wrapped the same arm around Alfred's shoulders. Francis's eyes flashed and Ivan saw him swallow under his turtleneck.

Alfred smiled, though he managed to give Ivan a covert, comforting pat on the back. "Forget that, dude! Give me snow, and I'll kick the flu's ass day and night."

Which was actually pretty accurate, now that Ivan thought about it. He recalled last year's November, a particularly wet and biting-cold month, when Alfred's cancer was getting nasty. Alfred's once-exceptional immune system was breaking down faster than winter's arrival, and at the most bitter time: Alfred was just starting winter training for baseball the following spring. The doctor said it was time to get serious: He wouldn't have the energy or the defenses to keep him healthy until March. Rest. Two days later Alfred was toting his baseball duffel towards Ivan's car, grinning, asking Ivan if he would like to go ice-skating after practice was over. So Ivan drove him every day to practice, and Alfred made it through to February without getting sick. Kicking the flu's ass indeed.

Alfred never did play in the spring. He knew that. But all he wanted was to finish training season, and his team rewarded him by retiring his number fifty jersey. Ivan smiled at the memory.

A car door slammed in the distance. Ivan brought his mind back as far as it could stretch, and Francis jumped at the opportunity to escape his violet-eyed rattlesnake attention. Lucky for him, too. Yao and Kiku had shown up, which meant more people, which, in Francis's world, equaled distractions, and distractions meant he was free to flirt and pervert the atmosphere, knowing that Ivan wouldn't be able to kill him unless he took out the Asians as well. (Ivan had no problem killing witnesses, but he had an idea that Alfred would be angry.)

"_Konnichiwa_, Alfred, Ivan. Hello, Francis," Kiku greeted, snapping a picture with his digital camera. Unlike Francis, he was wearing a huge water-proof coat, complete with matching earmuffs and snow boots. Kiku reminded Ivan of a little mouse sometimes, and he felt his death-mood…_settle_, so to speak.

Alfred, too, seemed to be in a better mood. He jumped up and down under the weight of Ivan's arm, a toothy smile splitting his face. "Hey, guys! Where's Ludwig and pasta boy?"

"They'll be here soon," Yao said, smacking Francis's wandering hands. "Gilbert passed out drunk last night at Roderich's—don't ask, please. But he's bringing Gilbert along, just in case."

"_What?_" Alfred groaned. "Oh, c'mon!"

Kiku's head tipped to the side. "I thought you two were friends, Alfred-_kun_."

"Yeah, I did, too." Alfred tugged on Ivan's scarf, wrapping part of it around his neck. "That d-bag totally creamed me _three hours straight_ at Super Smash Bros. I mean, like, _destroyed me_. He's always bringing up some crap that I owe him years of servitude for his awesomeness or some shit."

"Speaking of debts…" Yao interrupted, perking up a bit more. "Where's that fifty dollars you owe me?"

Alfred fell still.

"Uh…" he sputtered. "W-What about it?"

Yao narrowed his eyes. "You do have it, don't you? Ivan said you would if I came today and…socialized."

Now, it was a known fact that Alfred was, essentially, the biggest money-hoarder on the face of the earth. While Ivan considered Alfred's skills in English class and history pathetic, Alfred was prodigy-worthy when it came to economics and business, and yet he was considered the poorest of their tight-knit friend circle. He never asked his family, whom were comfortably middle-class, for cash, and he rarely tried to squeeze more than five dollars worth of lunch money from Matthew when his stomach demanded it. Since he used to be busy with sports all year round, Alfred never had time or the energy to sustain a job. So, he turned to his friends, specifically Mr. Rich-Chinese-Diplomat Yao, because in Alfred's world friends were in a separate commitment sphere of dues and debts than his family. Ivan laughed at him.

He wasn't laughing now, though, because Alfred was using his scarf to pull him down to eye-level, and Ivan wasn't big on asphyxiation—for himself, that is.

"_What. Did. You. Tell. Him?_"

Ivan choked, weaving his fingers between his scarf and his neck to relieve some pressure.

Alfred tugged again. "Well?"

Ivan chanced a glance at a pine sapling to his left. "Hmm…"

"_Hmm? _That's it?"

Francis laughed. "Oh my, Alfred. It appears your Russian Romeo threw you to the Montague's dogs."

"So Alfred doesn't have my money…"

"I-I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know…Ivan shouldn't have…_Ugh_, I'm _sorry_, it's just…"

Yao rolled his eyes and sighed. "Forget about it. It's tiring trying to keep up with all the money you borrow. Besides, my parents' allowance is worth more than what you take, so consider your debts null and void. Never, _ever_ mention it. _Ever_."

Alfred's eyes widened and he released Ivan's scarf—whom of which quickly tucked any loose ends under his coat. "Really? Seriously? Like, _totally_ really seriously?"

"Just as long as you making me come out into subzero temperatures to hang out worth it."

Ivan, after knowing Yao pretty well after they shared international residence for a few months until his parents arrived in the States, knew that under the practical dryness of his words Yao was being as generous and warm-hearted as he could be in the face of his dying friend. Alfred almost cried then, but whether it was from the atmosphere or that his debt was lifted, Ivan didn't know, nor did he care.

He looked happy. And that was enough.

"Oh my God, thank you!" Alfred used Ivan's body to propel himself forward into Yao's arms. Yao jumped, looking wildly at Francis and Kiku for help, but the two of them stayed as far away as possible without looking rude with Ivan in striking distance.

Yao braved glancing at Ivan, and was surprised to see that his old Russian acquaintance met him with an expressionless stare. No smiles, no giggles, no auras of doom. Yao swallowed. He brought up one arm and, with a small, genuine smile, awkwardly patted Alfred on the back.

Crisis averted.

Alfred gave Yao another squeeze before pulling away. Smiling, he fell back into Ivan's chest, who on impulse wrapped his large arms over Alfred's chest.

"So! Kiku! Show us your pictures from Japan."

"They are not that interesting, really…"

"Bullshit! C'mon, let us see! You said you'd take a picture of Fujki for me."

"Pardon me, Alfred-_kun_, but it is called _Fuji_."

"So you have pictures?"

"Many."

"Then cough 'em up, Honda!"

The next few minutes revolved around a shy Kiku Honda sharing with the five of them his pictures from Japan from when he went over Thanksgiving break with his family to visit. Alfred had bothered him non-stop the week before about taking as many pictures as possible, buying as many souvenirs as possible, getting as many Pocky boxes as possible, because "They need to be authentic!"

At one point Kiku was wrapped up in a red-faced argument with Francis to show him more pictures of his "lovely" cousins, and Alfred used the distraction to touch Ivan's arm. He tilted his head up, and Ivan was given a full view of his blue eyes underneath his furry hat. Ivan buried his chin in the front flap, nuzzling.

"Hey…" Alfred began, suddenly solemn. "Why did you tell Yao I had the money?"

Ivan turned away, frowning and breathing, so he could bury his nose in Alfred's neck. Breathing. Crisp pine trees and distant chimney smoke. He could call Alfred fixated if his words had been chastising. He could call himself thoughtless if he wasn't thinking. But Alfred was just curious. Curious and concerned. Breathing in crisp pine trees and distant chimney smoke under a Siberian overcast.

Ivan breathed and he said, "You wanted them to come. I'm sorry."

Even when there was nothing to be sorry about—but Alfred knew that, and he smiled in return. A knowing smile. A grateful one. "Thank you."

"Anything,_ солнышко_."

* * *

Endearments and public pity parties aside, the stragglers were arriving. The German brothers Ludwig and Gilbert came prepared with beer and coffee thermoses (the beer was Gilbert's "awesome" idea, with Ludwig's grudging consent) and trailing behind them was Ludwig's personal cling-on, Feliciano Vargas, who squealed as soon as he saw the snow hill behind their picnic benches and gave a quick but meaningful _Ciao i miei amici!_ to Alfred and his bear of a boyfriend. Ivan watched the little Italian, wrapped in a huge blue parka that Ludwig no doubt wrestled him into, dive for the hill and proceeded to make marshmallow-puffed snow angels.

Alfred thought it was hilarious. He was on his second cup of coffee by the time Feliciano finished one snow angel, so when he slipped his mug-warm hand into Ivan's giant gloves, Ivan squeezed his palm and put their entwined fingers inside his military-styled overcoat's pocket.

"Snow angels rock," Alfred said. "Man, if I'd brought a sled…these hills wouldn't stand a chance!"

"You idiot. You shouldn't even be out here, much less sledding in thirty-degree weather."

Francis choked on his coffee.

Ivan smiled.

Alfred's brow was drawn together in a wire-thin wrinkle, but he perked up nonetheless and smiled at the newcomer. "Artie! You came!"

If Ivan could strike Man dead—well, he would have done it ages ago, but he saved a special place in his heart for a certain Arthur Kirkland, Brit Extraordinaire, Wielder of the Perpetual Scowl (Alfred's words). Why, then, would Ivan ever muster up the strength to dial his number and ask him, tersely, if he wasn't busy flogging children for grammar errors or historical inaccuracies, would he be so kind as to join his disease-ridden friend and company for a night on the town—afternoon in the park? Why didn't Ivan just break every bone in his own hand until he bled in the snow and then sawed his limb off raw?

Easy: Arthur Kirkland was his Alfred's best friend. Distant ex-boyfriend. And Ivan had an inkling that Alfred wouldn't want blood in the bed. Or a one-handed man-pillow.

Oh, Ivan could write _encyclopedias_ of mindless, blood-lusty thoughts that would make James Joyce turn in his grave. Maybe it was the way Arthur carried himself, short as he was, back straight and nose high. Maybe because Arthur bemoaned his self-entitled Tutor of the Masses position, dryly devastated that Americans (Alfred) were on a downward academic cycle. Or possibly, just maybe, just maybe _possibly_, Ivan hated him now more than ever because Arthur was standing there. No hello, no smile. Just stood there with his arms folded over his coat. Huge eyebrows fused. Glaring at Alfred, glaring at them all, standing like a parent.

Ivan didn't give a damn if he was concerned.

"A good thing, too," Arthur said, eyes glittering. "Have you gone _mad_? Have you absolutely lost your damned mind?" He scoffed. "You should be _home_, you should be _resting_."

Alfred's jaw clenched.

Everyone had gone still, the tension freezing them as much as Arthur's words froze in the air. Feliciano was inching towards Ludwig, tugging his sleeve worriedly, while Gilbert gawked with Yao on the bench. Kiku and Francis glanced at each other, both taking a hesitant step forward in opposite directions: The former towards a hunching Alfred, the latter towards Arthur.

"A-Aha, Arthur," Francis said, pitching his voice three notes higher, "that's no way to treat a host! Alfred and Ivan have _graciously _invited us all here for a wonderful winter get-together. Now—"

"Shut your trap, frog."

Francis gaped.

Arthur shook his head, looking exasperated, but the fire was ever-shining in those green—_mean_, thought Ivan—eyes. He shoved away Francis's outstretched, peace-friendly arm, and he was staring at Alfred once again.

"I don't know what's gotten into you," he continued. "Everyone else here may be willing to hide under a rock, Alfred, like your _dog_ here—" he glared once at Ivan "but I'll be damned if I let you throw away what little time you have left dying out here."

Ivan felt Alfred swallow. Shaking. "Cut it out, man…" he mumbled.

"No. _You _cut it out, _you _stop trying to fool us."

Alfred shook his head. "I'm not _trying—_"

"Oh, I should have known. Of course you're not trying. You're just careless."

"Enough, Arthur," Ludwig boomed.

"Arthur-_san_…" Kiku echoed.

Arthur barked a quick, humorless laugh. "What, you think I'm being cruel? Look at him, all of you!"

"B-B-But, Arthur, w-we…we were just having f-fun…" Feliciano said.

"_Fun?_" Arthur snapped, and the Italian whimpered behind Ludwig once again. "You think this is _fun_, watching Alfred _die _out here?"

Alfred's head kept shaking, back and forth, back and forth. "Arthur, please—"

But Arthur would have none of it. Now he was raging, his face red, a color Ivan was beginning to think looked good on him. He growled in frustration, pointing his finger at Alfred. That damning, accusing finger of a figure. Alfred glanced at him once and Ivan saw something prick his eyes close and away, hiding under his Russian trooper hat. Ivan smiled, again and again, wider and wider as Alfred burrowed into his shoulder, but Arthur didn't see. He wouldn't see.

"I don't care if it hurts your feelings, Alfred, because I'm trying to keep you alive! You are _dying_. You don't have the strength to be out here. You can't be Captain America anymore, you idiot, and the sooner you learn that, the better."

"Ivan…" Yao warned behind the Russian's back.

"Grow up, Alfred, because you don't have enough time to fuck around being a kid anymore."

Ivan chuckled.

"I don't even know how to get through to you anymore. I just—_damn it all_, Alfred, has that cancer reached your brain? I have half a mind to—what the bloody Hell do you think you're doing, _Russki_?"

A "russki" attacks when provoked.

* * *

Ivan was never lost in his rage. Blindness, red hazes, the shaking wildness people in books and crime shows described in bouts of lost tempers…those were symptoms of people accustomed to having—or believing they had—some sense of control. Ivan never deluded himself. His life and its consequences never let him. When he punched Arthur in the face, it was the most control he had in years. It felt natural. And when Arthur yelled and there was blood on Ivan's hand, he laughed and loomed.

He heard Alfred. "Ivan, stop it!"

Ivan grabbed Arthur's scarf and yanked him up to his chest. Gasping, Arthur kneed his thigh. Ivan threw him to the ground, through the snow, until something popped under Arthur's body. Ivan lunged.

"_Agh!_ Bloody—_get off me!_"

Laughing. Punching and shouting and blood and laughing. Three more punches to the face until someone—Francis, probably—grabbed his arm, so he switched to his left and yanked at pale, rough yellow hair. At the scalp. He shoved Francis aside.

"Ivan!"

He straddled Arthur's bleeding body and pulled his hair back, all the way into the snow. Arthur was wheezing—he was tired from fighting back, the angle only making it worse—and blindly reached out, trying to find anything of Ivan's that he could latch onto and hit or hold. But Ivan kept smiling, because the bruises and scratches on his face wouldn't compare to the pain he could inflict on this man—boy—just by pressing two fingers to a spot on his neck, and the all-knowing Arthur Kirkland wouldn't know what hit him. _Ivan did._ He knew it would hurt, and the experience would be frightening and near-death, but Ivan also knew he would enjoy it all the same, watching Arthur suffocate while his dislocated wrist looked for skin to scratch and blood froze in his throat—Ivan wouldn't stand for it. None of the pushing or shoving would move him, or the screaming—

Feliciano was screaming.

Not yelling, or shouting. Screaming.

Screaming bloody murder.

"_Alfred!_"

* * *

Ludwig had moved first. In his deep, thundering roar, that teenager could command millions, so a few shell-shocked teenagers and a now-animalistic Russian flocked to him like sheep. Francis, take Arthur home, now. Gilbert, call Matthew, tell him we're bringing Alfred home and that he's—I don't know if this has happened before, I don't want to call the hospital just in case. He's breathing—_call Matthew, Gilbert!_ Okay…Kiku, come here. I need you to take Feliciano home…never mind, Gilbert will drive you both to our house instead when he's done. What? Matthew's not…Does Alfred have a key—all right. Ivan, Yao, over here, I need to get Alfred to Ivan's car—wait, we can help…Ivan, I said we could help. _Ivan._

The gathering was over, scattered, with Ludwig a calming hand over what could have been mass hysteria. Cars revved, plumes of black smoke in a wintery backdrop, while Ivan cradled Alfred—passed out—in his arms, Ludwig driving. Yao wanted to check for a fever, but it was a rule of nature that if you valued four limbs, you left a wounded pup to his mother's care.

And behind them, all that remained was Arthur's blood in the snow. There was no secret meaning behind it. Just blood in the snow.

* * *

At Alfred's insistence, Mr. and Mrs. Jones left that afternoon for a day trip to visit some friends a few counties over, and Matthew was at hockey practice. When the boys arrived, Ivan took Alfred's key in one hand, Alfred's body in another, and unlocked the door to the Jones' residence. He made no sound, no assurances, no pleads or rejections for Yao and Ludwig to stay or call the hospital. But they dared not leave him alone, so they waited in the living room, neither brave enough to venture upstairs and into whatever room Ivan had closed behind him.

They didn't wait long. Ten minutes later, the door flew open. The door jam cracked under the force, and a panting Matthew still in hockey gear was staring at them, eyes wide.

"Where is he?"

Ludwig jerked his head towards the stairs. "Upstairs with Ivan. He may be awake. I'm not sure."

But Ivan was sure. After he had Alfred in bed, wrapped up in blankets and quilts and whatever covering Ivan could throw over him, he paced. He paced because it was cold. Not because Alfred had collapsed. Not because Alfred was paler than ever. Not because bruises shined dark under his slow-moving eyelids. Not because Ivan could feel his lungs cracking or his palms pricked with his own nails. Not because he was shaking. Not at all. Those feelings had no reason to exist. They had no parasites to feed off, because Alfred was fine. He was just tired. Yes, just tired. He was getting better. Maybe taking him out during the winter was too much. He would be fine. Ivan shouldn't be worrying.

Yet he worried a dry knuckle between his teeth and bit down, hard, until blood was on his tongue and Alfred's eyes fluttered open five minutes later. Ivan grabbed a stool by Alfred's desk, sitting right by his drooping head.

Alfred blinked. His glazed blue eyes stared at nothing, past a point near Ivan's bent knee. Ivan gripped his own thigh. That look was familiar—but it lasted only a second. Alfred blinked again, his eyes wider this time, and the energy was back; a little shaken, but sparking as strongly as ever. When those eyes lolled up, Ivan smiled at the electric shock that blazed through him.

Alfred hummed a laugh. "Shit. My head feels like…shit. What happened?"

Ivan leaned over, pressing the back of his clean hand against Alfred's cheek. "You fainted, _солнышко_. You have been unconscious for about ten minutes."

Alfred groaned. "Wow. Didn't see that coming…hey, is Arthur okay?"

"He'll live. Unfortunately."

"C'mon, man, you can't keep doing this every time—"

Alfred's door slammed against the opposite wall. Both Alfred and Ivan jumped, and then relaxed when they saw Matthew, breathing heavily with swollen eyes that were definitely not from running into below-zero winds at record speed with a few pounds of hockey pads still hooked on. Alfred smiled.

"Alfred! You're awake? You're awake! Oh my God, Al, are you okay?" Matthew hurried over to Alfred's other side, dropping down on the floor, looking nothing like the intimidating hockey forward Ivan knew him to be. Matthew's hands shook, he bit his lip often, and he was going to get wrinkles quickly with all that worry in his eyes. (Ivan noticed eyes more than anything, whether it was Alfred's bright and beautiful blue sparks, or Matthew's stranger purple-tinted eyes. Purple in blue, sort of like a bruise, Ivan mused. But they were different. They were shadowed. Just like they were now, staring at Alfred's face.)

The sicker brother was still smiling as he mock-punched Matthew's head. "All's fine and dandy, bro. I just got tired."

Matthew shook his head. "You should have stayed here. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I've been getting that lately. And I'm _fine_."

"I called Mom and Dad."

"Dammit. What did they say?"

"They'll be home tomorrow morning. They want to take you to the hospital for a check-up."

Ivan narrowed his eyes.

"_Ugh_," Alfred moaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Please, God, don't make me go! I'll do anything, anything! Ivan, please, save me from these imposters! You're my only hope!"

Both Ivan and Matthew managed a chuckle, and the room felt renewed, like a new morning—Alfred's morning—Alfred's mourning—

"_Al_," Matthew said, trying to look serious and failing. Matthew's little grin was infectious, like Alfred's energy, and Ivan smiled along with him. "Stop being melodramatic, you sound like a girl."

Alfred grabbed Ivan's elbow with a nostalgic strength, mock-pleading. "Ivan, don't let them take me! Please! Someone here must be sane!"

There was a darkness in Ivan's smile when he patted Alfred's hand. "Maybe it's for the best, Alfred. And it's just a checkup, _да_?"

"_No! Not you, too!_"

For a while the three of them remained like that: bickering, laughing, just being boys. It was all very normal, all very bittersweet, just the way this little trio had always been together. Alfred would crack some joke or comment, Matthew would either laugh or throw it back in his face with some pocket-wit—he was sharp for a wallflower—and Ivan would blend in. Not with the furniture, of course, but with Alfred. Ivan would neutralize himself, smiling, rumbling deep laughs now and then, but always as a shadow under the sun. He was happy there. He was happy being Alfred's shadow. And when Matthew swerved into hockey practice news, Ivan knew that this happiness belonged, in this room with bright-and-shadow-eyed twins, and Ivan wished, wished, and wished that happiness wouldn't go stale. (But he knew better, so he never hoped.)

Then Alfred squeezed his arm, kneading his thumb into Ivan's skin. "Hey, um…could I talk with Mattie for a bit? Brother to brother."

Ivan glanced over at Matthew, looking just as confused as he. But Ivan took Alfred's hand in his own and stroked his fingers once before leaving, closing the door behind him. He walked down the hall, loudly, before gliding backwards and pressing his ear against Alfred's door. He had perfected this trick ages ago when his mother and step-father would discuss his wellbeing—walk (stomp, even) long enough until you were sure the other party was satisfied, and Ivan had the count down to the second. He just chopped off a few more when Alfred was involved.

But this time he wished he had really gone downstairs. Alfred's voice came clear and strong through the door, Matthew's softer, but Ivan only needed to hear Alfred's.

"Mattie, you can totally have my room when I kick the bucket."

"Al—"

"Don't try to talk me out of it. You've been up my ass about it for years because it's a hell of a lot bigger than yours. But please, _please_, don't paint it gray. Ugh. I hate gray on walls. It looks nice on everything else, but not on walls. And you can't throw away my Yankee stuff. Cover everything in Devils shit, I don't care, just don't throw my jerseys or my balls away—ha, that's what she said."

"Al…s-stop talking like that. You'll…you'll be okay. Mom and Dad will be home tomorrow."

"Nuh uh uh! Can't weasel your way outta this one, dude. You gotta promise me, okay? Here, I'll help. Repeat after me."

"Al—"

"I, Matthew—"

"Alfred."

"—brother of the sick and sexy Alfred—"

"_Alfred_."

"Nope, you have to say it with me first! I hereby solemnly swear never to—"

"_Alfred fucking Jones, you're not going to fucking die_."

Ivan tensed, his hand clasped on the doorknob in case he needed to intervene—or, quite simply, to kick Matthew's ass out of Alfred's room. After a few moments, though, he heard Alfred's voice again, still unwavering, but now it was…heavier.

"I'm sorry, Mattie."

"You should be. You…you don't _say _things like that, Al! If you do…then you're giving up, and that's _selfish_. Get it? Selfish. You know I can't stand it when everyone tries to feel sympathy for people who commit suicide. _You know that_. And what the Hell are you doing now? Giving up, right? And for what, so we'll feel sorry for you and you can be the center of attention like you always are? _You're getting better, God dammit!_ Stop doing this! Think about Mom for once, huh? Do you know what'll happen to her if you speak like this—Wait, you've never actually _said _this to her, have you?"

"Of course not."

"Then why tell _me_?"

"Because you're the only one strong enough to handle it."

Ivan went downstairs after that.

* * *

He thought about trying to look normal when Matthew came down, teary-eyed and weighed down by his hockey gear, to tell him that Alfred was tired and wanted him upstairs so they could talk or sleep or whatever he was feeling up to. But Ivan didn't know what normal really was. Maybe that meant looking happy here in America. Maybe it didn't, but that didn't matter. Ivan felt out of place in his own skin. He derived no comfort from his favorite coat (his step-father bought it for him on a whim) or his cherished scarf (his oldest sister made it for him). Ivan couldn't feel the enveloping ease that came with being in the Jones' home, a haven he was long given free access to by the man and lady of the household for being such a polite, smiling, foreign gentleman of academic integrity. A far-cry from the typical boyfriends their sons brought home. Ivan felt bad sometimes that he was trying so hard. But Alfred appreciated his efforts, and even if he went back to his host family's house tired, it was always a satisfied exhaustion. Sort of like the adventure stories he knew as a child. He couldn't wait for another one.

That was why he had to leave. When he left Alfred and Matthew to their "private" conversation, Ludwig and Yao had already left, leaving a note letting them know that Gilbert came to pick them up and to call immediately if something happened. Ivan pocketed the note and headed for his car. All he could hear was Mrs. Jones's cheerful chirping from the kitchen, Mr. Jones's deep, tumbling laughs, Matthew's shouts from the living room during a hockey game, and Alfred's voice in his ear, his arms around his waist, wondering what Ivan got him for Christmas.

He needed something back at his host family's house, at the Lorinaitis'. They were a quiet family. Lithuanian. None of them would dare go into his room. But finding the envelope, feeling it safely tucked into his pocket while he drove back to Alfred's, sitting in the living room while the brothers still talked—it didn't help. And when Matthew came downstairs, told him to go back up, it was dark outside. The envelope off-balanced him. Ivan needed to put his fingers against the wall in the hallway to steady himself as he made his way for the glow of Alfred's lamp under the door.

"I can hear you," Alfred called. "Stop lurking and get your ass in here."

Ivan put his hand in his pocket and obeyed.

Alfred had wrestled more pillows from Matthew's room. He had them piled high behind him, but he was sitting up without trying, and in the lamplight he didn't look as pale as he did that afternoon. When Ivan closed the door behind him, Alfred eye's shined and he beckoned Ivan over. Ivan didn't budge.

Alfred pouted, but it was forced. Ivan saw him biting his cheeks to keep from grinning. "Don't tell me I need to take my pants off to get you over here."

Ivan stared at him—but the longer he stared, the longer his thoughts were left to their musings. He needed to focus. He couldn't do this now. Alfred was fine. Alfred was going to be fine. He pulled out the envelope and Alfred tipped his head.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Your Christmas present."

Alfred frowned.

"I know it's early, but I couldn't wait. I bought tickets the other day. Plane tickets. They're for you and me."

"Really? Where were we going?"

Ivan twisted the sheet in his hands, tightly, nooses made for fingers and _no, where _are _we going_ and he had to swallow down something. "Moscow. You're meeting my parents. I've told them about you. They want to—we're going in the spring."

Alfred smiled softly. "You know that's not gonna happen, big guy."

"My sisters will like you. Well…maybe not Natalia just yet. She is very protective of me and the rest of us, but—I'll protect you, don't worry."

"Ivan."

"Katsyusha, she's the oldest, and married with children. My nephew, Vanya…Hmm, my sister named him after me, but he's so much like her. She's very sensitive, you see, and affectionate, so Vanya is always sad because it's cold. Her Sofiya is more like us. She's very…quiet."

"Ivan…"

"My mother will love you, even if it doesn't look like she does. Don't worry, she will. And my father—actually, my stepfather. My real father…never mind. My stepfather will be polite. Just try and be a little quiet and—wait until you see them. I won't spoil it. But my house—Oh, we'll get to sleep together. I'll make sure of it. And if my stepfather gives us any trouble…well, I'll sneak into your room, hmm? Like always. It will work."

Alfred stared at him for a few moments, his arms falling to his sides. His eyes weren't bright; they were filmy, like he just woke up from a pleasant dream and was still wracked with its aftereffects. Then he took a deep breath, blinked very slowly, and patted the covers next to him with a small smile. A sleepy smile.

"Tell me more, babe. Come here and tell me more."

Ivan was almost giddy. He peeled off his coat and threw it over the stool, and Alfred turned on his side so Ivan could hug Alfred's shivering back to his chest. Alfred covered his hands with his own. They were smaller now, Ivan noted. More bony. But not too much.

Then Ivan launched into his story, his voice filled with a nostalgic comfort that came with anyone separated by oceans from their country. But it was a beautiful story nonetheless. It was not so much a story about Moscow—anyone could find a story about Moscow on the Internet—but about Ivan's family. There was Ivan's mother, a short, petite woman with dark hair and eyes that had the most severe way of loving her children Alfred ever heard of. She was impassive, no-nonsense, the kind of woman that would have been labeled a bitch in the States but considered strong and resilient by both Russians and her children, and said children loved her for it. It was an intimate sort of love, Ivan explained. His mother made you dig deep for her affection, and if you managed, she had nothing but adoration for you for the rest of her life. She made you a fixture. She would go out of her way to help you without letting you know or asking for a thank you. His little sister Natalia was much the same…except for the affection. Natalia was a scary young woman, insanely beautiful (she'd been proposed to God-knows how many times), and her love for Ivan was just skirting an inappropriate boundary. But she was devoted. She took hardships against her mother or siblings personally, and when Katsyusha married and had children, Natalia was the most excited she'd ever been in her entire life. She forged a bond with Katsyusha she didn't have before, but why anyone could dislike his eldest sister was beyond him. Katsyusha Braginsky was a tall, sensitive beauty who married a decent businessman, and Ivan had nothing but kind words for her: His sister, the oldest of the three, who made him his scarf and took care of him when he was younger and helped pay for his tuition to go to an American school for a few years. And she gave their family two beautiful children, little Ivan and Sofiya, whom Ivan doted on like the last graces of the world.

Then Ivan told him about the birch forests, and Alfred felt his heart swell at the subtle, but unmistakable _joy _in Ivan's voice. When they were younger, his mother would take them north of Moscow to see some of the beautiful birch forests that gave Russia more beauty than foreigners were privy to. In the summer the forests were green and lush, like an oil painting Ivan once saw in a book. With the sun shining through the canopy, pale yellow walls of incandescent strength, a younger Ivan thought he was in another world, a magical world, where the leaves could make light and the trees were gray-white soldiers against an otherwise verdant and winding palace. He laughed when he said he swore he heard a Siberian tiger, and his mother had to remind him that, Vanya, we're not in Siberia, but Ivan didn't care. There were Siberian tigers in his birch kingdom, vicious and proud, protectors of the land. Somewhere in the middle Alfred whispered, "I'd love to see that," and Ivan promised him he would. He would take Alfred to one of his forests during the spring. Ivan, excited by his own plans, murmured Russian endearments into Alfred's hair without meaning to.

"Are you sleeping?" Ivan whispered.

"Hmm, almost."

"Sleep, then. Get some rest. We'll talk more in the morning."

"Babe…"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry…but I need another favor."

"Go ahead."

"Really, I know I shouldn't—"

"What is it?"

"I need you to take care of my brother."

Ivan froze, watching his birch forests and the sunshine and his Siberian tigers flee into the cold New Jersey night outside.

"No."

"Ivan—"

"I said no. I have sisters to take care of. I have you to take care of. And when you get better, you can take care of your own brother."

"You're not listening."

"You will be fine."

"Ivan, I need you to do this for me."

"I haven't done enough?"

"Of _course_ you have, but that's not the _point_—"

"You can't make me do this."

"That's why I'm _asking _you."

"Why?"

"Because, _Vanya_, I can't take care of him anymore."

Long after Alfred fell asleep, Ivan's huge hands wrapped around his own, Ivan wished he had said no, but sunflowers find ways to baffle you. Ivan went to sleep feeling cheated out of something, but of what, he didn't know.

* * *

A/N: This puppy was supposed to be a one-shot...but it's damn near thirty pages, so I decided to break it up while I had the chance. If I get enough reviews, I'll post the second part soon!

-The oil painting Ivan refers to is based off the "Birch Forest" painting by Isaac Levitan, who was a Russian painter in the nineteenth century. (It's a beautiful painting, I suggest looking it up.)

**Reviews, critiques, or any kind of feedback would be a fantastic Christmas present.**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow…Just wow. I am so thankful for all the lovely and wonderful reviews everyone gave me! I just…I'm a total sucker and I get excited over simple things. So your review replies will probably reflect that. NOW I'M TOTALLY FREAKING OUT THOUGH. The pressure is killing me. Seriously. No joke.

Summery: Once Ivan was close, Alfred reached up for him, and Ivan remembered never seeing him look more like one of his beautiful sunflowers, a spunky little spitfire that now rivaled the sun—if only for a moment.

Warnings: Slim Jims, blizzards, _hopefully more sadness_, and Mrs. Jones. And scene-jumps on crack.

Disclaimer: I, Trans-Siberian Railway, do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, Russia/Ivan, America/Alfred, Canada/Matthew, or Lithuania/Toris. _However, _I do own Mrs. Jones. Sort of.

* * *

It was bright and cloudy the next morning, and Ivan had dreamed.

Good dreams, too; those were rare. Too bad he couldn't remember them when he woke up. He was feeling warm all over, especially when Alfred molded every bone and joint into his front through the night. That was nice…_very _nice. So when Ivan's eyes opened, still puffy with sleep, he ignored the smell of Matthew cooking breakfast downstairs and settled for nuzzling the back of Alfred's neck, which Ivan decided was much, much better than getting up or wracking his brain for dreams he knew he had when there was someone ten times better than the world in his arms. He couldn't tell what the weather was like, what with the angle of Alfred's window, and that just made him smile even more; he could plead ignorance to his host family as to why he was missing all night. _Oh, I thought the roads had iced over. Silly me, I was just being cautious. I wouldn't want my mother and sisters getting any late night calls about me being dead in a ditch. That would be upsetting._

When the sleep-fuzzy feeling began to lift, he was aware of a distant buzzing, like the whir of a muted television, or a heater. Ivan tilted his head away to investigate, but out of the corner of his eye he saw something white and angular rise and fall against the window-light streaming into the room, and at its descent, the noise stopped.

"Oh, sorry. Didn't know you were awake."

It was Alfred's arm. Turning off his iHome radio. Oh.

Ivan sat up, rubbing Alfred's arm up and down, up and down, feeling the chill over Alfred's skin but painfully aware of the bruising that hadn't gone away yet. Ivan wanted to believe it was because he felt Alfred's pain like it was his own—which was partly true—but he always found that phrase odd, almost selfish, like someone was only sympathetic because he himself was in agony. Odd, selfish; besides, Ivan was very pain-tolerant. What he felt when he ran his rough hands over Alfred's skin was like—was like—was like doing a lot of despicable things he couldn't describe in English, because he _knew _it firsthand in Russian. Despicable things. But Alfred always told him it didn't hurt, that he liked the way Ivan's hands felt, that he _always _liked the way they felt, and God strike him dead if Ivan stopped touching him Alfred was going to release all kinds of unresolved sexual tension with Arthur—and that always shut Ivan up.

Today was the same, almost. Alfred leaned into Ivan's warmth. Alfred's body sighed with Ivan's tender motions. When Alfred turned his head and smiled like no other teenager could smile first thing in the morning, there was a comical sort of threat in his eyes, saying _if you stop, so help me_—even while he asked, "Did I wake you?" This was familiar. This Alfred—Ivan's Alfred—was familiar

Alfred was much better than his forgotten good dreams.

Ivan pressed Alfred close under the covers, hip to hip, a hand on Alfred's lower back. "Hmm…no. I don't think so. Maybe. I forgot. What were you listening to?"

Alfred shrugged. "Eh, nothing really. Music. The weather, mostly."

"What did they say?"

"I forgot."

Ivan growled softly against Alfred's neck and was rewarded with a sleep-heavy giggle that had Alfred's fingers—bony but getting better—weaving through Ivan's pale, ashen-blond hair and massaging his scalp. "If you don't tell me the truth, I might have to…_attack _you."

Alfred full-out laughed and pulled Ivan's head completely against his neck. "Aw, what's wrong? My big bad tiger got his feelings hurt? Poor little cub. But fear not! Your hero will find your mommy for you."

"I'm warning you."

Alfred pressed his lips to Ivan's hair, smelling snow and wood, and peppered open-mouthed kisses to anything he touched. "Bring it on, babe."

And under the jovial jump in Alfred's reply was something that toned down Ivan's teasing from vicious tickling to something sensual, slow, surprising, but Ivan knew Alfred's surprises, because Alfred didn't joke with that voice of his. So attuned was Ivan to Alfred, Alfred to him, that their taunt muscles ready for play-fighting relaxed together under the strange gray glow of the morning light. Alfred didn't grab. Ivan didn't bite. They touched. Alfred hugged Ivan to his body while Ivan held Alfred's side, gently, and pressed a soft, lingering, warm kiss to the juncture of Alfred's collarbone. Loving. Reverent. He felt Alfred's heart quicken on his lips.

Ivan didn't know what brought this on. He wasn't complaining. But he would ask Alfred later. Not now. Alfred was getting better, and Ivan wanted to enjoy it, especially when he felt his radiant sunflower smiling into his temple.

"I love you, Vanya. With all my heart."

"And I you, _солнышко_. More than you know."

"Shit, that was so much manlier than mine."

Ivan chuckled. "I thought yours was beautiful."

"I meant it."

"I believe you."

"But I don't believe _you_. I know _exactly _how much you love me."

"Oh?"

"Oh _yes_. Because I want Slim Jims, badly. Christ, I feel like some pregnant chick…I swear, it's a _craving_."

Ivan's lip curled. "That beef jerky stuff? Isn't that mechanically-separated meat?"

"You bet your sweet ass it is!"

"Sweet, huh…"

"_Don't distract me!_ No, I mean it! I, um…" Alfred blushed. "Would you mind getting me some? Please? We're out…and I already asked Mattie yesterday morning to pick some up in town, but they're all out, too."

Ivan, confused, sat up and stretched. "None of the stores in town carry them?"

Alfred looked apologetic—and that usually entailed Bambi eyes and blushing, so before Ivan could figure out the probability of every store in town being out of what Ivan knew to be a fairly popular American snack—_ugh, _he gagged at the smell—he was already slipping on his coat.

"Where should I check?"

Alfred brightened. "The supermarket right off the highway always carries them. Promise."

Then his scarf. "How many?"

"I think they carry the one-hundred packs…"

Ivan stopped and raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really, really."

Ivan just shook his head and made his way for the door.

"Hey!" Alfred called. Ivan looked over his shoulder to see Alfred's blond head poking out of the covers, pouting. "No goodbye kiss? This ain't some church group, bud! No one's looking."

"I will be right back."

Then Alfred did something Ivan should have seen coming—or, better yet, what it actually meant. Pouting a little more, Alfred threw the covers off. Pressing his lips and eyelids together in abject determination, he used what muscle he had left to support his body under his arms to push himself up and against the headboard. Ivan trembled under his coat as his violet eyes scanned Alfred's decaying body; his skin, too white and too thin, was sickly and bruised, like watered-down milk over pale purple and yellow paint splatters. They'd grown since the last time Ivan was brave enough to let his hands roam Alfred's body, and he could hardly imagine what his scalp looked like. Alfred refused to go through chemotherapy again, but if his shadowed eyes were anything to go by, Ivan imagined a battlefield. How he managed to keep all this pain from his parents, Ivan could only fantasize, and he was doing that a lot recently.

Feat accomplished, slightly worse for wear in the war zone—his breathing labored—Alfred stared at Ivan with an intensity not found in the eyes of dying, cancer-stricken boys with years ahead of him, but that of a dying, cancer-stricken boy named Alfred Jones, who just wanted to be touched. The pout returned, hindered by the beginnings of a smile, and he rose outstretched, shaking arms.

"Please?" he breathed. "Pretty please with cherries and hamburgers and Coke and steak on top—oh, and that Russian chicken stuff you made for me. That was _delish_—pretty, pretty please?"

Ivan sighed. "You're just like my nephew." But he said it with a solemn glow in his eyes and in his voice, tinged with adoration, the kind of voice he knew Alfred loved and made them both smile in a more serious kind of way. And Ivan didn't disappoint; once he'd made it to Alfred's bedside, his darling American boy's eyes were shining. Once Ivan was close, Alfred reached up for him, and Ivan remembered never seeing him look more like one of his beautiful sunflowers, a spunky little spitfire that now rivaled the sun—if only for a moment.

Ivan held his cold Alfred to his body, squeezing him, wanting so suddenly to remember how he always had an arm around his waist and the other behind his head, how Alfred's sharp bones would mold into Ivan's softer bulk, how Alfred, no matter how frail, would always warm their intertwined bodies more quickly than Ivan ever could, how Alfred's lips would graze his ear and he would shudder and sigh into him. Then Alfred turned and kissed him, slow, passionate, and sparked with an array of things Ivan didn't want to understand, and it was just too perfect. Too beautiful. Too _Alfred_.

Ivan hummed when they broke apart. "I thought you wanted me to _leave_."

Alfred closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to Ivan's and keeping them there while he chuckled under his breath. "Yeah…get outta here, big guy. Go get me some mechanically-separated meat sticks."

Ivan kissed him again, cupping Alfred's cheek. "I will be back."

"I know you will…"

"What's wrong?"

"Just tired, that's all. Hey, when you go downstairs, can you tell Mattie I'm gonna sleep a little bit longer? Give me a few hours. Beauty rest and stuff."

Alfred's eyes were glistening. Maybe he yawned when Ivan wasn't looking; Alfred would always tear up when he yawned.

Ivan smiled and kissed Alfred's forehead as he pulled away. "Of course. Sleep well. I will be back soon. And good morning."

"Good morning."

There it was again. That look. Alfred's eyes were half-lidded, his hands curled in his lap, a half-smile still on his face, but he was looking past Ivan this time. It must have been slow-moving, though; Alfred's blue eyes, bright and big and blooming, never moved from their spot near Ivan's heart. Ivan shook it off. He was just tired. He needed rest. Ivan would get his Slim Jims. And he'd get better.

Alfred's half-smile completed its cycle, and Ivan was graced once more with an energy that burst forth even in the dawn-gray room. "Later, babe."

American winters were strange, Ivan decided. So bright when it was gray.

* * *

Matthew feared for his stairs. One minute he was finishing up the pancakes and the ungodly number of sausages Alfred would no doubt vacuum off his plate, and then some sort of indoor blizzard—no, an _earthquake_—was trying to rip the staircase in two. Matthew jumped; he had to grip the sloshing milk carton in one hand and use his other arm to keep the glasses from teetering off the edge of the counter. _If Alfred wanted food, he could've just called…_Then it stopped, and there were heavy steps behind him.

Matthew turned. Alfred was tall, but not that tall, and in his condition he didn't fill the doorway like he used to. Matthew smiled; so Ivan was his avalanche. And that avalanche looked like a happy one, happier than usual. Ivan's violet eyes were smiling and cheerful, and his body lit up in the winter-washed glow coming in from the window. No doubt the entire ruckus was just Ivan dancing down the stairs, so Matthew let him off. If Ivan was _happy_ this early, dressed and ready to go who knew where, then Alfred must have looked better this morning. Matthew could deal with the noise for that.

And it certainly was a treat to have Ivan smiling at him.

"Good morning, Matvey."

Matthew blushed. "M-Morning, Ivan."

Ivan chuckled. "Interesting apron."

"Huh?" Matthew looked down at his—now very embarrassing—Canadian flag apron. "Oh, that. Um…Yeah, our dad is Canadian. He moved here after he met Mom during college in Massachusetts. She snuck it into the States just to piss him off."

"Did it work?"

"I'm not sure. Dad is sort of…quiet, you know? He doesn't take offense easily."

"Like you."

"Yeah, like me." Matthew swallowed, awkwardly smoothing out his hair and holding a plate out to Ivan. "Do you want something to eat? I made breakfast."

Ivan shook his head. "I was just heading out to pick up something for Alfred."

Matthew tensed. "Is he okay? Does he need anything?"

"Slim Jims."

"Oh."

"Do not worry. I'll be back soon. But he wanted me to tell you that he's going to sleep a little longer, so don't bother him."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll put some water by his bed just in case. But he's going to eat my food one way or the other. He's not going to eat packaged meat all day while I'm still around."

"You sound like his mother…When will your parents be home?"

Matthew turned away. "This afternoon. I just called them. I would hurry back here, if you want to see him before he goes to the hospital."

"I plan to. See you later, Matvey."

But when Matthew turned back to say goodbye, the front door had already closed—and Matthew pretended he didn't see the dent in the kitchen doorframe, like someone closed a fist around it and _squeezed _until the wood splintered beneath his palms.

* * *

Walking outside, Ivan saw for himself that, indeed, it was bright and cloudy. The sun shined down through the clouds without any bearing, icicles gleaming below their oak tree branches, and a little red squirrel—Ivan thought they were only gray around here—poked his head out of a snow bank near Ivan's car. A late coming acorn in its mouth, the squirrel fixed Ivan with a black-eyed, taunting stare before turning tail and flying up the nearby oak tree, dislodging an icicle that Ivan had to sidestep to avoid. Ivan smirked. Rodents.

But it didn't matter, because Ivan would gladly sidestep ten hundred icicles that morning as long as he got back in time to see Alfred off. He glanced up at the house where he knew Alfred's window was. The blinds were down. That would be normal. Alfred liked his room dark when he slept.

Ivan's drive to the store was long and full of snowbound traffic, but it wasn't deathly, he wasn't concerned, and the clock only read nine-forty-five. The supermarket was fairly close, and if it was too much to handle on the way back, he could always cut through some backstreets and make it home—to Alfred's house before his parents arrived. Ivan had everything planned out, right down to where he would park, where he knew the Slim Jims were, how much money he would have ready on command plus tax, and then he'd be back in his car, humming along with whatever American song he found on the radio. He didn't care what it said. It was just nice to have an upbeat rhythm to his surprisingly good mood to guide him along the highway, through last night's fears that Ivan threw away to the wind, and that rhythm would carry him back to Alfred's house. His sisters would barely recognize him if they could see him now.

He lost thirty minutes because of the traffic—it started snowing all of a sudden—but other than that, Ivan was feeling confident once he made it to the supermarket. Everything was going as planned. A little snow might add on a few more minutes, but he still had more than an hour left. He garnered some looks from the locals, though, as he was almost skipping, beaming, down the store's aisles like a child who knew a surprise was waiting for him at home: It was sweet prolonging the inevitable good, but excitement gets even the best of us, and Ivan wasn't on a mission to be the best person in the world, so when the receipt and grocery bag were in his hands and the cashier wished him a good day, Ivan was ready to squeal like the child people knew he was.

And just like a child, his hopes were crushed and reduced to ashes when he found himself wedged in a crowd of people who were staring outside, many of them grumbling and cursing into their cell phones. A furious wind drowned out most of their voices, but Ivan wasn't listening.

A blizzard had brewed.

Ivan's face fell.

He could just see five feet in front of him outside the window. In less than ten minutes the snow flurries Ivan encountered on the highway had turned into a wind-whipped, silver sandstorm. He could barely see his car through the storm, and above him the sun was no more, no more Heaven's gates, just an endless expanse of white sky. No one could drive in this, even with lights, and the only lights in the distance Ivan could make out were a few pairs of blurry, yellow emergency lights near where he thought the entrance to the highway was. One of the shoppers told him that because of the record-breaking wind speeds, a previous snowdrift was completely knocked off the overpass and onto the highway. Three cars were in an accident. Shoppers, for now, were stuck in the parking lot until the police and ambulances could clear the accident. And then there was the blizzard to worry about.

Ivan gritted his teeth and reached into his pocket for his cell phone…and cursed loudly in Russian that garnered him a few looks. He left his phone in the car.

"Gosh, guys, I'm so sorry!" Ivan turned to see a group of teenagers huffing near a poinsettia flower display.

"You should be. You said we would miss the storm."

"That's what the radio said! This storm wasn't supposed to come until eleven!"

Ivan narrowed his eyes. Walking over, he tapped one of the girls' shoulders, the one who had mentioned the radio. She glanced over, eyes widening at Ivan's height.

"Excuse me," Ivan said sweetly, "what did the radio say?"

The group looked uncomfortable (Ivan was used to it; Americans were terrified of his accent sometimes) but the girl replied, "It said all of New Jersey was under a winter storm warning. Very high winds, maybe twenty or thirty inches of snow."

Ivan bit the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. Something was stirring in his stomach, a churning that bloomed in his chest and down his legs. "When did you hear this?" he asked.

"Uh…like, nine this morning? Maybe nine-fifteen?"

Ivan fell back against the wall.

"_What were you listening to?"_

_Alfred shrugged. "Eh, nothing really. Music. The weather, mostly."_

"_What did they say?"_

"_I forgot."_

Ivan had to pay for six scattered poinsettia plants and a broken door within the hour. Meanwhile, power lines were going down, oak branches fell, and a distant Matthew pursed his lips at his snow-battered window, wondering when Ivan or his parents would ever get home.

* * *

It took thirty minutes to clear the traffic for the accident, fifteen to dig one of the cars out of the snow, another thirty for the police and more emergency vehicles and roadblocks to arrive, and then hours. It took _hours_. The wind was too strong. There was too much snow. Ivan and a few other men volunteered with shovels the supermarket provided to help clear away some of the drift, but after thirty minutes Ivan, used to biting below-zero winds in Moscow, was the only one left in the storm. All but the police were taking refuge in the supermarket. But Ivan stayed outside, back hunched, raising the shovel over his head like an ax, slashing into the snow's belly, grunting, digging through wind—it didn't make a dent. Ivan was out there for hours until he had calluses on his hands and he couldn't feel his face. But he had to keep going, or he would lose Alfred's face as well.

It wasn't until five-thirty that the accident was cleared. The storm hadn't settled, though, and now that it was getting dark, several shoppers decided to remain in the supermarket until things calmed down. Ivan was not one of them. He ran for his car and sped out of the parking lot for the highway, not caring about snow or wind or traction or visibility, because Alfred's parents were supposed to be there at noon and Alfred didn't tell him or his parents about the blizzard. If he even knew—

He caught the glint of his cell phone's blue-lit screen on the passenger seat, ringing. Ivan reached for it, lost control of the wheel on the slippery road, tried again. One missed call. Arthur. But it wasn't just Arthur. Seven missed calls in the past hour were Arthur's. Two were Yao's. One from Gilbert, Francis, and two numbers he didn't recognize. Three text messages from Kiku. One from Ludwig and Feliciano.

Eighteen missed calls from Matthew. Eight text messages from Matthew.

None from Alfred.

He didn't read any of them.

Ivan was off the highway soon after, so he stepped on the gas. (He almost killed someone speeding on the main road, he thought.) When he veered onto Alfred's street, the snow hadn't stopped, but the wind was winding down, and it made driving—and seeing—so much easier.

Ivan slammed on the brakes. His phone rang again. Ivan crushed it.

Alfred's street was blocked off. Not because of the snow, or down power lines, or a broken oak branch. Cars had piled up, parked on every curb and then some; cars Ivan recognized and wished he didn't. People filled the avenue, huddled in coats and blankets, others leaning on each other, whispering and wailing voices trying to understand why there was an ambulance, why is there a police plow, what's going on? There was Arthur and Francis on the sidewalk, and Arthur's face was red and puffy and his green eyes shone in the spinning ambulance lights. Ivan couldn't hear him. But Arthur was screaming, his lip curled, pushing Francis away from him whenever he tried to hold him, but the wounded can only fight for so long. Arthur was not a knight, and Francis was not weak, and in the end Francis had Arthur in his arms, and they both sank into the snow while Arthur clutched and cried into Francis's chest, shaking under the storm.

Ivan got out of his car and threw his shattered cell phone on the street, his eyes fixed on Alfred's covered window through the snow.

_It's just a relapse._ Ivan ran, hopping over cars and pushing crying people out of his way. _He's alive. He was alive this morning. He was fine. He _is _fine. _In the dusk-dark storm, Ivan forged a path through other people's tragedies; a tragedy he knew _should not _exist, a tragedy he was forced to endure through cruelty of word. There was nothing wrong. Alfred was sick. But he was getting better.

He _had _to be.

Ivan managed to push through two policemen before he saw _them_ and froze; a tiger under circular headlights, Ivan stared. _She _was there, hunched over in the backseat of her car, curls upon curls of sunshine-colored hair obscuring her face—perhaps for the best. Under the slow-moving snowfall her screams tore through the neighborhood, a sound Ivan had never heard before, a sound that stripped innocence from children and ripped away the stitches that held even one small human being to an Earth that was just too big, and Ivan's blood ran cold under the tremors her voice bred in his veins. _He _was kneeling at her knees, grasping and rubbing her clenched, frozen fingers, his knee cracking her fallen glasses, and Ivan was glad too that he only saw his dry-heaving back.

The front door opened. Two grim-faced paramedics came out with a stretcher. She sobbed. Ivan closed his eyes.

_Nothing is there._

He walked forward, eyes closed, past the paramedics and their _empty _stretcher, past her gasps and calls—"Ivan? _God_, Ivan, where are you _going_?"—and into Alfred's house. Where Alfred was. He wondered where Matthew had gone. But then he heard the house shudder from the wind and something mumbled in his ear, and he thought of Alfred's ghost stories and _ran, ran, ran_ up the stairs to tell him about it before they caught him. Something was breaking; Ivan felt it. He wanted to tell Alfred quickly lest it shatter to pieces like Mrs. Jones's glasses under her husband's knees. The hallway was tracked with snow, and Ivan made his way for the glow of Alfred's lamp under the door. He knocked softly.

"Alfred."

Maybe he was sleeping.

"Alfred, open the door."

Maybe the paramedics gave him new medication.

Ivan was horrified when his voice cracked the third time. "Alfred…_солнышко_…I'm coming in…"

Ivan reared back and kicked the door down.

"_I learned something today," Alfred said, snuggling into Ivan's arms._

_Ivan chuckled. "That's a surprise."_

"_I'm serious!"_

_Ivan wrapped Alfred up in covers and quilts and they relaxed into the warmth of Ivan's bed. "Tell me."_

"_Most of the stars you see at night are already dead. Depressing, huh."_

_Ivan hummed. "That is beyond our control."_

"_Yet we still like watching 'em." Alfred sighed, dejected, and pulled Ivan's arm over his shoulder._

_Ivan lifted Alfred's chin and kissed his brow. "Sometimes beauty is too precious to be wasted, _солнышко_. Dead or alive."_

_Alfred smiled at that._

And Ivan fell to his knees under the tragedy of Alfred's dead-lit room.

* * *

It can take up to seven hours for a person to die, and that meant _dying_; as in, the body begins to shut down one organ at a time until there's nothing left for the brain to work with. While not consciously so, several people in several years after Alfred died on that beautiful December night wondered when he started to go. Matthew thought it was when Ivan left that morning. His friends thought it started with his collapse at the park near the pine forest. His parents thought it was a few days before that, when Alfred's smiles became soft and sweet and he wanted to go outside.

But Ivan knew better. Alfred was dying when those cancer cells breathed life in his eyes. Why Alfred chose to hang on so long, Ivan didn't and never wanted to know, because he knew the answer would lead him to one of those beautiful ponds that froze over in the winter where he and Alfred often skated together, and Ivan would throw himself under the ice and never come back up.

* * *

Ivan didn't remember walking out of Alfred's house. He didn't remember how he got to his car. He didn't remember people calling his name or grabbing his arm or crying into his sleeve. He didn't remember starting the car or driving back to his house. He didn't remember Mr. and Mrs. Lorinaitis holding his face, whispering sorry's and what can we do for you's. He didn't remember how he got to his room.

Ivan didn't remember a lot of things that night. But when he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, staring out his window at the storm still raging outside, he realized that maybe in that span of thirty minutes his universe disappeared: Ivan's world didn't come crashing down because Ivan's world was gone. There was a darkness he couldn't recall, something that gnawed a hole through his heart's remains, a code lost under sidestepped icicles and broken tree branches that Ivan would never find again. And it ripped him apart, like he was holding a beautiful, yellow little bird in the warmth of his palms, delighted to breathe in the scent of life—only to find that his beautiful little bird was as dead as the hole in his heart, and he didn't know what went wrong when there was nothing wrong in the first place. Yet there he was, unmoving, staring at the storm, holding his dead little bird to his heart to try and warm it up.

There was no life to breath. There was no warmth to hold. There was no yellow-haired sunflower laughing in his ear. Ivan wondered where he went.

No one could move him. His host family tried and gave up the next day, deciding that the best thing to do would be to call school and beg them to give Ivan a sick week, he was mourning, the poor dear. Even Toris, their son, his sympathy overpowering his fear—foolish boy—walked into Ivan's room one day with a letter from the Jones', approaching the pale statue staring out the window with nothing but pity in his heart. Yet when he whispered, gently, that a letter had come for him from Mr. and Mrs. Jones, a letter regarding the time and date for the funer— Ivan's arm shot out and grabbed his neck. Toris gasped, the letter falling to Ivan's thigh. Ivan's fingers, still gloved, pressed just enough to immobilize but not enough to choke, though Toris found it hard to swallow. He grabbed Ivan's arm with both hands, but he didn't cry out or struggle; he recognized a rabid animal when he saw one, and Toris dared not move for fear that Ivan might get a kick out of killing someone else's loved one while he had him by the throat.

Ivan stared at the letter. Picked it up with his other hand. Pulled Toris's throat down until they were eye to eye and Ivan smiled like the day was bright and glorious.

"You know, Toris," Ivan said. "This letter has been haunting my thoughts. Has something ever haunted you, Toris?"

Toris whimpered. "N-No, I don't think so."

Ivan's eyes widened. "You don't _think_ so? Then you never have. Everyone knows when they're being haunted. Mine feels like a parasite. Something is working its way through me. I can feel it. I think it is winning, Toris, and it actually scares me. This letter…" Ivan held it up in front of his face, grinning. "I knew it would come. The parasite told me it would. It says my Alfred is dead. Is that right, Toris?"

Toris didn't answer.

"Arthur was here while you were at school. In my room. He had a letter like this one. He slapped me. I don't remember what he said. But I think he wanted me to go where this letter is asking me to. I know it will take me to Alfred. But I don't want to see Alfred like this, Toris. The parasite will eat him alive."

Ivan released him. Toris stumbled back, coughing and clutching his throat. Ivan ripped the letter apart until it rained down to the floor in pieces.

"Toris," Ivan continued, staring at the window once again. "When do you think the storm will stop?"

Toris looked outside. It was the first sunny day since the blizzard.

* * *

That night, with Toris's throat still burning and the letter still shredded, the moon was full and shining into Ivan's eyes when Mrs. Lorinaitis knocked on his door.

"Ivan," she called, "someone is here to see you."

There was always someone to see him. Arthur, Toris, others. The parasite. Never Alfred. Alfred never came. Ivan knew he wouldn't. But Ivan wished for him anyway.

He heard heels clicking on his floor. Mrs. Lorinaitis didn't wear heels. The door closed, and Ivan felt the heat of another crossing his floor, a radiant heat that burned his side.

"Ivan."

_No. Not her._

"Ivan, look at me."

_Go away go away go away go away go away—_

"Don't you _dare _ignore me, Ivan Braginsky. Not now."

The parasite coiled in Ivan's throat and he had to grit his teeth to keep it from escaping. Turning to face his visitor was a mistake, too, because the parasite jumped to his eyes and he felt something wet gathering in the back of his head when he met a pair of bright, big, glistening blue eyes that struck his statue down as quickly as it came. Mrs. Jones was tall and thin and pretty, her face dusted with freckles, a tumbling mass of blonde curls framing a face that frowned when it should have smiled and shoulders that tensed in anger when they should have been shaking in laughter. There was none of that Mrs. Jones in Ivan's room that night. That Mrs. Jones would probably never come back.

"I've been calling you. I've left messages."

Ivan gripped his sheets. Mrs. Jones glanced down at the floor and she stumbled back a step, covering her mouth, tears escaping.

"My invitation..."

Ivan shook his head and didn't stop. _There is no invitation._

"There is no invitation."

Ivan was only ever invited to Alfred's house. Anything else was just wrong.

But Mrs. Jones did not back down. A family trait, it seemed. Ivan loved that about—_where is he?_ Instead she pressed her lips together and stared down at him, hard.

"Someone told me something awful this morning, Ivan. Someone told me that when one twin dies, sometimes the other twin dies soon after." Mrs. Jones choked out a sob and, with as much determination as Alfred had several mornings ago, she dropped to her knees in front of him, staring at him, her eyes huge and red-rimmed and knowing. "If you don't think I understand you—Ivan, I gave birth to him. Alfred and Matthew and their father are the reasons I wake up in the morning. Then I come home from a trip that _Alfred_ told me to go on only to find ambulances and cars blocking my street and Matthew pulling his hair out in the yard. My boy is _dead_, Ivan. My boy is _gone_, and my Matthew is falling apart. He won't eat. He doesn't sleep. He just sits in Alfred's room and cries. I've never—I've never seen a boy cry so much."

Mrs. Jones bent over. She cupped her hands under the shredded letter and held them close like they were Alfred's remains and not the body lying cold in a funeral home.

"You and I have watched him waste away for a year now. I don't think he would have held out for so long if it wasn't for you, Ivan, and I'm grateful. That must sound like a horrible thing to say, but I truly am. I know how much Alfred meant to _me_. I can't even begin to imagine what he was to you, or even to Matthew. But Ivan, if you don't come to Alfred's funeral…"

Mrs. Jones was in his room, on her knees, _on her knees _for him, and took his big hands in hers—Ivan couldn't look, Alfred had her eyes—and begged him, "Please, Ivan. Please come. Please come for my boys."

_But where is _my _boy?_

"I can't save Matthew, Ivan. Alfred was his hero, not me, not his father. _Goddammit, _Ivan, please, _please_ look at me."

Ivan heard ringing. Maybe a vessel popped.

"Mrs. Jones."

"Yes?"

Ivan turned to her slowly, his eyes half-lidded and pleading. "Mrs. Jones?"

She gripped his hands.

"Why didn't he wait?"

_Why didn't he wait…?_

"I said I would be right back. But I was not right back. There was a blizzard, and he did not tell me."

_He did not tell me._

"Ivan…"

"He did not wait."

"Alfred didn't want you to see."

There was a time when Ivan could breathe. There was a time when he woke up in the morning and jumped out of bed. There was a time when Alfred held his hand and pulled him outside, smiling, _C'mon, Ivan, it's boring staying inside all the time! _There was a time when Ivan could smile, really smile, without malice or hate or pity underneath. There was a time when a yellow-haired boy who smiled at _Ivan _became his life.

There was a time when Ivan's sunflowers did not die. He wondered when those times disappeared.

Mrs. Jones slipped a small paper bag with his name on it into Ivan's hands, Alfred's handwriting scrawled across the top. His horrible, horrible handwriting: _Ivan_. He turned it upside down and Alfred's glasses plopped into his waiting palm. A note was attached to the lens. Mrs. Jones cried quietly at his side.

Ivan peeled the note back, caressing it between his fingers: _I'd still like to see those birch forests one day, Vanya._

The parasite in his body burst in victory.

_My Alfred is dead._

Ivan screamed.

* * *

Mrs. Jones stayed for another hour, but no more. They stayed on the floor, she sitting upright against the bed, Ivan leaning against her, sobbing into her chest like a child, _wishing _she was his mother and not Alfred's. But there was only so much she could do, and in the end she kissed the top of Ivan's head like she would if he was Alfred or Matthew crying from a nightmare. _Please come, Ivan. Please. We need you to come. _And she left, taking the shredded letter and replacing it with a fresh one. A fresh wound. Ivan slept on the floor that night, an open invitation skittering off into the corner.

The funeral was tomorrow morning. It would be sunny. Alfred was always going on about how he wanted to be buried in the sunlight because cloudy days were too damn emotional, and Ivan had to cover his tombstone in American flags and sunflowers. "You've turned me, babe," he had said with a goofy grin. But that was two years ago—when Alfred was healthy and _alive _and he made Ivan want to stay alive, too. He wondered how much of that rant Alfred meant and how serious Ivan was being when he laughed along and agreed. Ivan had outgrown his only suit, and that was a shame. Alfred said he looked sexy in suits.

Mrs. Lorinaitis came in some time after Mrs. Jones left; there was a call from Moscow, _your sisters are very worried about you_. Ivan didn't take it. He didn't know why. Hearing from his family was probably the best thing for him right now. But he still didn't take it, and he didn't call them back.

He woke up at two in the morning, his body feeling hot from a nightmare he couldn't recall. In a fit of something, he kicked out and broke his bedside table, the lamp cracking glass over his thigh. Ivan clawed at the floor, crying silently, knowing that Alfred's death was sinking in _but he didn't want it to_ because then Alfred would be _gone_. His thigh was bleeding. Blood pulsed in his legs and Ivan could still remember Alfred saying _later, babe_ and not another word. But his thigh was still bleeding, and Ivan still didn't know what to do.

That is, until he heard the ghost. No parasite this time—there was a ghost in his room, and Ivan's nightmare came rushing back.

Ivan splintered one of the floorboards.

"Go away."

His face felt warm. Ivan threw his arm out and growled.

"_Нет_."

The house shivered in the wind. It sounded like a name; Ivan's mind was clouded in pain and anger and dead sunflowers, but he still heard the name. Ivan shook.

"_Солнышко,_" he sighed.

It was hopeful thinking, and Ivan wasn't one for hopeful thinking. He coughed wetly into his hands because the ghost wouldn't go away, nope, not unless Ivan did what it wanted, because Ivan _promised_. There was probably nothing there; Ivan knew he was losing his mind. It could have just been his nightmare creeping up on him again. But he grit his teeth anyway and let it whisper purple eyes and an a broken heart.

* * *

There wasn't much else left driving Ivan now. Alfred knew that about him, which was why he made Ivan promise that, one day, one day that wasn't supposed to happen, he would be limping out of his room and outside into the frozen air, trudging through unplowed snow with a ghost in his ear, whispering, humming, encouraging, all the way across town to a house with an oak tree and a covered window. One day Ivan would be standing in front of that house again, staring at the covered window again, but no longer for the ghost touching his shoulders. Alfred knew that about him.

And he was right.

Once upon a year ago Ivan had stolen Alfred's keys when his cancer struck and made his own; Ivan kept having nightmares in his own room and he already broke Mrs. Jones's rose trellis so he was through with climbing to Alfred's window. He remembered those nights fondly. Ivan had adrenaline rushes then, bursts of excitement when the door clicked open and everything was still, like the house was holding its breath, waiting, watching, until Ivan was in Alfred's room and everything sighed. Ivan sighed now.

But Alfred wasn't here anymore. There would be no warm body smelling like sunflowers and skin waiting for him at the end of the hallway. Alfred would not be there to beam, beckon, and sweet-talk Ivan into his arms just for the sake of _being _there, where Ivan could hold and love and protect without ghosts looking over his shoulder. It was Alfred's light that ward them off, a beacon; Ivan was sure of it. But Alfred's light was dead now.

Ivan was on his own, and he knew it. So he took a deep, shuddering breath that chilled him to the bone and let his ghosts guide him upstairs through Alfred's dead house.

He almost ran back downstairs when he saw light underneath Alfred's door. But that weed-bloom of tragic hope died in his heart as quickly as it came. Ivan was not meant for storybook endings with forest palaces and Siberian tigers and blue-eyed princes who dazzled the world. That was becoming incisively clear in the span of a week. Ivan patched up the hole in his chest and forced back tears when he heard Alfred's whispers amidst the crying, a soft, despairing little wail that came from Alfred's lit room.

There wasn't much else he could do but open the door and hope he didn't shatter. (Ivan was not a "pick up the pieces" sort of guy, but fate finds ways to kick you in the ass, so Ivan picked up others.)

He expected to find Matthew in Alfred's bed, and it was Matthew Ivan got. In the orange glow of Alfred's lamp, light played over Matthew's body in the worst of ways. His hair, just as blond as his brother's, was greasy and unkempt, knotted, but even though Matthew's waves covered his face, Ivan could still see the damage that lurked underneath. Mrs. Jones's words came back to him, and Ivan frowned—_Matthew wasn't eating_. Coupled with anguish and sleeplessness, Matthew's face thinned in days what usually took weeks to _start_. Bags hung heavy under his eyes, now wide open and bloodshot, as he stared at Ivan beneath a cocoon of quilts and comforters and Alfred's old varsity jacket. Yet he still trembled.

"I-Ivan…?" he rasped. Ivan pressed his lips together.

Tears swelled in Matthew's eyes, and even in the dim light Ivan could see the purple-tint wash over.

"_You're here._"

Ivan nodded.

"Where _were _you? I called. _I called you. _During the blizzard, I—" _cough, retch_ "—I couldn't _find _you. I tried everything. I called Arthur and Kiku and…"

Matthew whined and curled his pale fingers into his hair. Ivan thought he could see patches when he crossed over, towards a boy that reeked no joy, and took his wrists. Held them, pulled, the way he used to hold Alfred when they were _together_, and tugged Matthew's hands from his scalp. Matthew's hair would grow back. Matthew's hair would shine again and he would claim hearts just like his brother could. But he would still be alive. Alfred wanted that.

_I need you to take care of my brother._

But it didn't make Ivan feel any better, and neither did Matthew.

"I've yelled at him, complained about him, hit him, _hated _him, but…He let me teach him how to ice skate in front of all his friends, and he'd beat up kids who picked on me or mistook me for him, and he always bought me Devils' tickets when he had the money and replaced my hockey gear he broke, and—he never let you replace me. He always found time for me, even if I didn't ask or I didn't want it, he just _did_ it anyway, the _bastard_, and—" Matthew's voice cracked, then choked, and he buried his face in his arms and just _screamed_. "_God_…oh _God_…My brother is _dead_…"

Ivan didn't want this. He didn't want to share his pain, not with a boy who looked just like his dead lover. He wanted to go home—and that meant _home_, back in Russia with his sisters—and flesh out Alfred's face into his mind until all that was left was _Alfred_. Like a mad dog, he wanted to keep moving, curling up under a birch tree and covered in sunflowers, damned and determined to find a place to die where he'd be back in his country with Alfred's voice beckoning him to sleep.

Fantasies. Beautiful, dreadful fantasies. All for naught. Naught under the snow. A promise was hovering over those birch trees and sunflower beds. Promises were not fantasies. Ivan had to grow up for that.

So before General Winter's perpetual hush could draw him away, Ivan snaked an arm—platonic or displaced romantic, who knew at that point—around shaking Matthew's shoulders and whispered his own incantations, where love grew in dead pine forests and Alfred F. Jones smiled at the sun.

* * *

This story has possessed me for about a week. And _Christ Almighty_, Ivan is hard to write, but he's fascinating, so I resigned myself. I hope I made people cry...if not, well, such is life.

-The "Russian chicken thing" is Chicken Kiev. I've never had it, but it sounds (and looks) delicious; I've vowed to either make it or enlist one of my many Russian friends to make it for me.

**Thank you for sticking with me through the story! Reviews are a nice New Year's resolution. Even if they are one-word reviews, I appreciate them all!**


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